


Leo: or, the Real Reason Jemma Doesn't Use Fitz's First Name

by onlysometimes



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sleepy Sex, jemma probably reads too many romance novels, routine mission violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlysometimes/pseuds/onlysometimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason why Jemma never calls him Leo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leo: or, the Real Reason Jemma Doesn't Use Fitz's First Name

The alarm on Jemma Simmons’ phone woke her without fail every morning at 06:00, time enough to shower, dress, and get a kettle going for tea before anyone else (save perhaps Ward, who frequently rose early to punch things) was up and about. 

Jemma required time enough to ignore the throbbing ache in her body, between her legs, until she was once again in control of herself and the flush in her cheeks had faded. 

Time to refocus on her work.

 

Skye had asked her once, during a movie night snack break, why she never referred to Fitz by his given name. Fitz occasionally used hers, after all; more and more of late. Jemma had just begun chewing a handful of popcorn and very nearly choked, eyes wide, flustered and panicked and rather terrified at the question until Fitz chose that moment to hop from over the back of the sofa, precariously balancing a bowl of pretzels, and give her a whack between the shoulder blades. 

“She’s never called me Leo,” he’d answered as he sat down beside her, and Jemma had smiled at him gratefully from behind her hand, still blushing. “It’s probably a holdover from Uni, you know, very strict on decorum there.” 

When Skye gave him a look that said that no, she certainly didn’t know about University and couldn’t care less for decorum, Fitz had stalled and claimed he was parched and needed to go fetch more beer. 

Skye, thankfully, changed the subject.

 

When the dreams first began, back at the Academy, Jemma initially tried forgoing sleep. It had worked for a time, until she accidentally started a (very small) fire in the lab she shared, even then, with Fitz, who had been furious and shouted at her about carelessness and how she could have been hurt, though he was right there, next to her; and then, when she’d begun to sniffle, he’d lowered his voice and pressed his nose to her hair and suggested she go get some rest. 

The over-the-counter sleep aids she tried next worked no better, making her feel numb and slow, and she didn’t dare speak to the med staff for fear there would be sleep studies or psychologists who might determine she wasn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. material after all and send her home, away from Fitz, and being separated from him would be even worse than this, being so close to him, being his partner, and having to contend with these torturous dreams about him.

And so she created Leo.

Each night, Jemma had dreams of a man with warm and callused hands, knowing and capable, that can tease her body and take her apart and put her back together again; whose arms were wiry and strong and sometimes clutched her fiercely, or held her tenderly. He always knew what she needed before she did, this man, whether it’s just to be held, to feel safe, or to have every inch of her flesh lit ablaze, and he had an agile, wicked tongue and a firm bum and could make her eyes cross with just the flick of his wrist or a twist of his hips.

His curls were the color of honey and sleek between her fingers when she clutched at his hair, and his voice was throaty and dark when he groaned her name, _Jemma,_ with a thick Scottish brogue. 

But every morning, Jemma looked herself in the eye whilst she brushed her teeth and reminded herself that it’s not real. _Leo_ is not _Fitz,_ though she’s well aware that on this point she’s lying to herself simply to maintain her sanity; and she’s likely never to find out if Fitz could love her like Leo did, even if Leo only loved her in her dreams.

It’s a slippery slope, but she’s not about to give up ground. For the opportunity, to be on the Bus with Coulson’s team, to continue to know and work with Fitz, she had to put her feelings aside and get on with it. 

And so she did.

 

 

_“It’s a simple mission, Fitz,”_ Coulson had said yesterday morning whilst Fitz had choked down his porridge. May stood just behind him and nodded in that way she had that indicated she’d scanned Fitz for threats and found him sorely lacking. _“Just a quick grab-and-go for some suspicious, possibly Asgardian tech,”_ and now he’s bound and gagged and choking on his own bloody spit after being shaken down for intel by some thugs somewhere in Sudan. Ward was gone, taken away from the cell for more torture, presumably, which was a laugh because of the two of them, wouldn’t they assume that small, lily-white Fitz was the easier nut to crack? 

And while they had not spoken, couldn’t communicate, Ward’s presence had been a comfort. He even reckoned they were friends, now, the incident with the Asgardian staff notwithstanding. That was, if people like Agent Grant Ward even _had_ friends. 

Fitz tried to think about the Cavalry, about the team coming to their rescue again, but then he thought inevitably of Jemma, and that was where the line of thinking ceased to bear out. His life, hell, even Ward’s, wasn’t worth putting her in danger even for a second, but he knew somehow that she would be fretting about him. The last time he’d been on a mission she’d shot a superior officer in the chest, so now she’d probably be, what? Developing an airborne neurotoxin designed to temporarily paralyze everyone but he and Ward within a forty-mile radius, probably; but without a dispersal mechanism, it would be useless. Fitz shouldn’t be here, he thought. He shouldn’t be forced to leave her side. Hell, Ward and May were Operations, but even they knew suspicious tech when they saw it.

He couldn’t guess what time it was, as the cell was dark and had no windows, but he’d forced himself to remain conscious the whole time and he guessed it was nearing mid-morning. Mid-morning on the second day of this bullshite, walk-in-the-park mission, which had started badly and gone straight to worse fairly quickly. His stomach rumbled, he had a nasty, oozing gash on his head near his left ear, another high on his forehead near his parting, and the last time the thugs forced him to stand, he’d seen three Agent Wards, his stomach had revolted, and he’d vomited into his gag. 

Fitz was officially _done_ with field work.

 

It was probably closer to noon when he heard the footsteps, light and quick, so unlike the thugs in their heavy, steel-toed boots, and nimble, too, so it wasn’t Ward, who’d had to be dragged along because he was worse off than Fitz for the torture. He may have dozed off at some point, without Ward there, because when Ward was in the cell with him he’d kicked him each time he’d felt like dropping off. It was kind of ridiculous, watching him writhe on the floor with his bound hands and feet like an inchworm. He’d laugh about it, if he wasn’t living it.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door and he steeled himself for more questions and accusations in voices so heavily accented he couldn’t make half of them out, let alone answer them, even if his S.H.I.E.L.D. training had allowed for it.

“Rise and shine, Inspector Gadget.”

“Skye,” Fitz wanted to say, but his mouth was foul and stifled by his gag, and his abused throat probably couldn’t operate properly anymore if he’d ordered it to.

Keys rattled in the cell’s rusty lock and then gentle hands slipped beneath his arms and helped him to stand, and then Skye grabbed his dirty sleeve and he forced his wasted body to run.

When Fitz awoke again he was in his bunk, surrounded by the smell of disinfectants and ointments and dressed in a set of S.H.I.E.L.D. scrubs, clean and cool against his skin. The last thing he could remember was seeing the bus and moving toward it, and Coulson taking his weight at the ramp just before he collapsed and herding him off to the Med Bay. Jemma had likely seen to his wounds, which was humiliating, he supposed, but he couldn’t fault her for it. It was her job, and some small, selfish part of him - not unlike the anxious, 15-year-old-away-from-home-for-the-first-time part - was pleased to know she fretted over him at all.

The clock beside his bed read 03:00 and he was suddenly, inexplicably lonely. The bus was silent, save the rumble of the engines. Fitz reckoned no one was about this early in the morning, even with a team as hard-working as theirs. He sat up in bed and his vision, mercifully, did not swim at all. The cuts on his face were patched up with what felt like Jemma’s tiny, meticulous stitches, and the thought of the pinched up, concerned face that she made when performing surgery made him smile. 

God, he’d missed her when he’d been away.

He rose from his bed and padded out into the hallway in his bare feet, stopping at her bunk and entering her code. Part of him knew that there was something wrong with this, with checking on her whilst she slept, but the stronger, louder part just wanted to _see_ her. He stepped into her tiny space and looked down at her. 

She was smiling in her sleep, he noted once his eyes got used to the dimness, and she clung to her pillow like a buoy. Her hair was coming loose from her plait and he reached down to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. She sighed, then, and reached for him, and murmured, _“Leo.”_

And Leopold Fitz had never been a stupid man. He let himself be pulled down to bed.

 

 

Leo came to her that night and stood above her, watchful, protective, and when he tenderly smoothed her hair back from her face, she pulled him to her and clung, running her fingers along his body, making sure he was still whole and clean and perfect before raining kisses along his brow, part of her so relieved she felt like crying. 

When she kissed him, he gasped against her lips until the sweep of her tongue made him moan and roll her beneath him, the weight of him reassuring and his kisses somehow both inexpert and thrilling. She pulled at his garments, desperate for his skin against hers, and when he slipped his fingers beneath her pajama top she shivered at the chill of them for a moment until the blaze he lit on her skin warmed them up. 

He kissed down the column of her throat and palmed her breasts with his callused hands, and when he gently rolled her nipples between his fingers she felt the familiar ache between her legs. When he returned his mouth to hers, she whispered against his lips, “Leo, please.”

He unbuttoned her pajama top with unsteady fingers before clumsily removing his shirt, but when he returned to her, his bare chest against hers, it was as if he was everywhere at once, cloaking and enveloping and filling her. He trembled against her when she slid her hand down the front of his pajama bottoms and moaned when she touched him; but when he dared to touch her beneath her knickers his fingers were as long and as unerring as always and she soon unravelled under him. 

A moment later when he came in her hand the _“Jem,”_ in her ear was painful and familiar.

 

When her phone vibrated and beeped the next morning the sound came from beneath her bed, and for a moment she was so warm and comfortable that for once in her life she wanted to ignore it. But then as she became more aware, and the beeping got louder and more insistent, she realized she was naked and pressed against skin, and wrapped up in arms and legs, and alarm coursed through her, and she struggled.

“Och,” said a familiar, warm voice behind her, and the arms and legs wouldn’t let her go, but she ceased struggling anyway. “If I let you go to shut that infernal thing off, will you promise that you’ll come right back?”. 

Bashfully, she turned to look at him, and the look on Fitz’s face, so pure and happy and hopeful, nearly stopped her heart. 

“Yes, Leo,” she said, and she smiled.

 

Fin.


End file.
